“Hello, I’m Roger,” he says. As I shake his hand, I feel calluses on his palm.
“Hi, Roger, I’m Anna,” I reply.
“You look too young to be at this session,” he says, and his toothy grin reminds me of my late grandfather. He glances at my ridiculous cleavage and then blushes, purposely raising his eyeline to a few inches above my head.
“I’m actually fifty-eight,” I tell him. “I just look good for my age.” He laughs. “What brings you to microdating then?” I ask. I know immediately Roger is not someone I’m going to be attractedto, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have an enjoyable conversation for two and a half minutes.
“My daughter put me up to it,” he says, his eyeline cautiously returning to my face.
“My son suggested it to me,” I say, giving Roger an encouraging smile because he looks nervous. “How old is your daughter?”
“Twenty-two. She thinks I don’t have enough hobbies. I’ve been to this event twice before, and it’s always a friendly bunch. Plus, you’re home in time for the nine o’clock news and a mug of Horlicks. I met an accordion player last time; she persuaded me to sign up for classes. Did you know the accordion is made from a hundred different parts? Fascinating.”
“I did not know that,” I say, with a genuine smile now.
Watching Roger’s warm, open face, I feel guilty for my lack of enthusiasm. This isn’t all desperate loners looking for love, it’s also people trying to connect, daring to try something new. I look across to the next table and see Loretta roaring with laughter. I promise myself I will try to be more open-minded, to be more like Loretta.
The bell rings and I say good-bye to Roger. I don’t tick him, because I don’t want to date someone who reminds me of my late grandfather, but I wish there was another way of communicating that I enjoyed our conversation and to wish him luck with the accordion playing. As I’m deliberating, a gaunt, olive-skinned man in his forties takes the seat Roger has vacated.
“Fabian,” he says with a heavy accent. He quickly tells me he is Italian, has recently moved to Bath, and doesn’t know many people. He mutters “bellissime sfere” while looking at my chest, which reminds me that I really do need to retrieve my sweatshirt. After Fabian I meet Greg, an electrician with a phobia of mice. He has distractingly hairy nostrils and tells me how difficult it is to find trousers to fit his body shape. “Most men don’t have hips, you see.” Next is Levi, a musician. He’s forty-two, still lives withhis parents, but is at pains to explain that he has his own front door, so can come and go as he pleases. He tells me I’m “well fit,” and I end up ticking him because he’s vaguely attractive, he has no visible nostril hair, and I feel obliged to tick someone.
Next up is Ben, who must be in his seventies and is certainly at the wrong event because he is expecting us to be playing checkers. Mitch, a boxer with cauliflower ears, wants to know what my resting heart rate is. When I tell him I don’t know, he reaches for my wrist to find my pulse, then starts heavy breathing in a way that makes me uncomfortable. When the bell goes, I brace myself for who’s coming next, hoping for elderly and harmless rather than young and pervy. But when I look up, I see Will.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, shaking my head as he sits down, trying to hide my pleasure in seeing him.
“Research. I needed to see how this works,” he says. “Jesus, you’re going to give half the men in here a heart attack with that top.” He eyes me boldly, sitting back languorously in the chair.
“This is the wrong age category for you. Twenty-five to thirty-four is another night,” I say, moving both elbows onto the table to cover my chest.
“I lied about my age,” he says in a whisper, raising a finger to his lips. “Let’s see who you’ve ticked so far then.” He whisks the clipboard out of my hand before I can stop him, reading down the list. “Levi? You ticked Levi, which one is he?” He looks around the room, and I snatch back the clipboard.
“Shhh,” I say, embarrassed that someone might hear him.
“That guy? Really?” He grimaces. “Are you going to tick me?”
“I’m not ticking you.” Watching him in the low-lit bar, something seems different about him.
“Why not? I’m ticking you,” he says, putting a large tick next to my number. Then I realize what’s different—he’s drunk.
“Will, stop it, this isn’t a joke. I’m here for work,” I hiss across the table.
“Have you told people you’re an undercover journalist?” He says it playfully, but his words plant a seed of disquiet. Am I being disingenuous?
“No,” I say, looking from side to side to check no one is listening to our conversation, “and keep your voice down.” Now his face shifts, the playful mask dropping. His eyes are full of torment as he holds my gaze.
He reaches across the table to take my hand. “I need you.” He looks down at my hands now, clasping my fingers through his. “Come to mine after this, I want it to be like it was in the woods.”
I start to nod; I want that too, more than anything. But reason holds me back. That look in his eyes; there’s something he isn’t telling me.
“You got the job, didn’t you?” I ask on a hunch.
He nods, then looks away guiltily. “I did,” he says, then after a pause adds, “I don’t have to take it, though.”
“Yes, you do,” I say firmly. “You have to take it. This is exactly what we were trying to avoid.” Then the bell goes and we’re out of time; other people start getting to their feet.
“Last night you said you didn’t want me to go,” he says.
“I also said I didn’t want you to stay on my account.”
